


With the Tide

by Talullah



Series: Westernesse [20]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23853226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: Tar-Telperiën is eager to enjoy her month of rest in the beautiful Summer of Nindámos, but something is not quite right.
Relationships: Tar-Telperiën/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Westernesse [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/296957
Kudos: 2
Collections: Legendarium Ladies April 2020





	With the Tide

**Author's Note:**

> [Legendarium Ladies April - Prompts for April 20](https://legendariumladiesapril.tumblr.com/post/615969689482428416/legendarium-ladies-april-prompts-for-april-20)   
>  **General Prompt: Presences and Closeness**   
>  **Picture Prompt: with the tide, by[kelogsloops](https://kelogsloops.tumblr.com/post/180342492914/with-the-tide)**   
>    
>  **Poetry Prompt: Grief Work (excerpt), by[Natalie Diaz](https://poets.org/poem/grief-work)**   
>  _I do my grief work with her body—labor  
>  to make the emerald tigers in her hips leap,  
> lead them burning green  
> to drink from the violet jetting her.  
> We go where there is love, to the river,  
> on our knees beneath the sweet water.  
> I pull her under four times  
> until we are rivered. We are rearranged.  
> I wash the silk and silt of her from my hands—  
> now who I come to, I come clean to, I come good to._
> 
> Title taken from the picture prompt.

_The water around us, now as then, and we float, twirl, embrace, extend our limbs in absolute freedom. Himmiel, how lovely you are, with your long black hair fanning out in the current, as you quietly breathe underwater, as if this is the only place you truly belong. The blue-green around us stretches out forever, no Valar in the West, no Elves in the East, no one waiting back home, for there is no land, no time, just the water and our undersea dance, taking the toll of years from our limbs until we are two girls, fifteen forever._

Telperiën dreams, then awakens in her bed, sweating and alone. It is high Summer and not a breeze stirs the air in the room. Himmiel is not there by her side, but the pillow still has the mark of her head. Telperiën is quite sure that it is not a great secret that the queen beds her handmaid, but Himmiel never stays the night, afraid that the gossip might fester.

In three days, it will be the Erulaitalë and then she will be free. But this is not what awakened her - she never has cause to worry about the ceremonies. Himmiel has prepared everything, as she always does, choosing the theme for the festivity for the people, in Armenelos, sending out invitations, and ordering all the food and drinks needed, the music, the decorations for the grand hall. As for the religious ceremony itself, Himmiel also took care of that, the offering to Eru, the text to be read, the clothes and jewels that she is going to wear, the listing with the order of the great families of the land in the ascent procession... Telperiën tries to lull herself to sleep but it’s surprisingly hard. Perhaps it was the wine last night - she had two cups, when one is more than enough and this little excess is the proof that she is not at her finest right now. She inhales deeply and waves the bed sheet to create some airflow. Then she turns to her other side and rests for a while, trying to will the fatigue to convert to sleep.

But, after some time, she realizes that no matter how tired she feels, she will not be able to return to sleep. She yawns, stretches and, reluctantly, rises from her bed and goes to her desk. Himmiel keeps saying that it is a filthy habit to have a place to work in one’s own room, which should be reserved for rest, but the day of a queen never has enough hours and the more things she completes now, the less things she will have to worry about when they reach Andunië.

There is a series of pardons to sign. Each year, on the eve of the Erulaitalë, she signs a few pardons for petty theft and other small crimes. Fortunately, after Tar-Ancalimë’s work on the reform of agriculture and production of goods, most people have a place to live and a job that brings food to the table, but in the larger cities, especially in Rómenna, where there is a persistent pocket of poverty, there is always some criminality. For a few years, she suspended this tradition of her great-grandmother, failing to see the point, but Himmiel had convinced her that it would not do Elenna any good to have prisons full of people.

As Telperiën carefully reads each pardon decree and then signs it, she realizes that she has not yet thanked Himmiel for this year’s preparations - in fact, she has barely acknowledged them. She wonders if this is why Himmiel was unusually silent the night before. Or, if there is some new intrigue brooding, as, over the years, many people have openly or slyly to come between them. But she realizes that it was probably her own distraction. She must be careful - she almost lost her, once. Himmiel is not a plaything or a servant, but rather a woman of her own means, who is, according to her mother, wasting her life on her. And maybe she is.

Telperiën finishes signing the pardons and takes from the table a decree she needs to review for the third time. She takes it to bed, but cannot readily focus on it. Judging from the faint light, soon it will be dawn and she wonders if she can abbreviate her morning meeting, have an early lunch and take a short nap before the Council meeting in the afternoon. She loves being queen, was born to do it, but even the great Tar-Ancalimë, who fought victoriously so many battles, defined periods for resting, as Himmiel showed her, in her research. The decree falls from Telperiën’s hand to the floor as she finally falls asleep.

~~~

One month. One month all to herself, Telperiën thinks to herself, letting the sense of a job well done sink into her bones as the carriage carries Himmiel and her from Armenellos, as soon as the festivities of the Erulaitalë end, to the family house in Nindámos. She takes Himmiel’s hand in hers, despite the hot weather, and presses her fingers fondly. 

“Thank you, my love,” she mouths, too tired to pronounce the words aloud.

Himmiel moves her lips in an imitation of a smile and averts her eyes to the landscape outside, fields of wheat ripening under the relentless sun of.

“What is it, love?” Telperiën asks. “I am sorry that I did not thank you properly before.

Himmiel waves her hand. “Do not worry about that.”

Telperiën follows Himmiel’s eyes and watches the fields for a while, the dots of red of the poppies, the occasional hare, high above, a couple of eagles, circling. The land is poignantly beautiful. She falls asleep, after a while. She awakes with a small jolt when they stop for the night and sees that Himmiel is also drowsy, beautiful with her cheeks so rosy from the heat and her hair half undone.

They go inside the house, knowing that even though it is just the queen, her handmaid and a few guards and servants, the small party will cause disturbance to their host, even though the honour of hosting the queen for this night of travelling is usually fiercely disputed among the houses on their way south to Nindámos. She realizes that this year Himmiel did not have funny stories to tell her about the arrangements.

They eat, make polite conversation, but soon they go to sleep, pretexting an early rise the next morning.

~~~

When they arrive at the old family house in Nindámos, they are met with a perfect Summer day. The sea and the sky are so fiercely blue that Telperiën almost cries out in joy. They quickly go inside the house, which is cool, and lay for an afternoon nap. She years to go down to the sea, but she sees that Himmiel is yawning and needs rest.

On every day of her life, Telperiën works long hours until her body becomes rigid, and her fingertips cold, and Himmiel comes to her side and massages her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. Friend, mother, sister, councillor, lover, Himmiel is the reason that Telperiën has not died of hunger or exhaustion over the years, making sure that she eats, rests, exercises and finds time for music and her drawings. Himmiel, maker of time, she fondly calls her. 

She tries to rest too, but she realizes that something is wrong in the way Himmiel falls asleep so quickly and so deeply. It is late afternoon when Himmiel awakens, and Telperiën can see that she is not fully rested. But Himmiel, true to herself, gets to her feet and stretches out her hand to her.

“Come, now, there is still warmth and I know you are dying to get into the sea.”

Telperiën smiles and takes her hand. They walk down to the beach, past the last houses of the village, and take a turn to the left, to a path that leads to a cove they have always loved. Telperiën is the first to go in, in the simple linen shift they use for swimming, and she swims for a while, not looking back to Himmiel, who is always more timid with the sea. She swims until she’s far out and starts to feel the colder current. It is always exhilarating, getting to that point, where she knows that if she miscalculates, the sea might drag her off for many miles and she will not have the strength to return.

After resting for a bit she returns and finds Himmiel sitting on the sand, at the water’s edge, skin and hair still dry. She sits by her side.

“I feel so much better now,” she says. “As if twenty years were taken from my shoulders.”

Himmiel smiles, still staring at the horizon. “Yes, you have always loved the sea.” The water laps at her toes and she pulls back her feet.

Telperiën feels like sprinkling her with the water in her hair, or teasing her about her laziness, but the time does not feel right for jokes.

“Will you tell me what it is, love?” she finally asks. She knows herself, knows that if Himmiel continues to sulk for a while longer, she will get exasperated, snap at Himmiel, and they will end up fighting. And she doesn’t want to fight. “You have been different for days.”

She lies on the sand, waiting for Himmiel to speak. Himmiel exhales, breathes in again, and Telperiën realizes that she is crying. She sits back up and holds her.

“What is it, Himmiel?” she insists. “I swear I am going to kill you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong this very moment.”

Himmiel breathes raggedly a few times, then speaks. “I am sorry. I thought I could handle this more gracefully.”

Telperiën waits. 

“When this month is over, I will return home,” she announces.

Telperiën’s stomach clenches with a cold feeling she doesn’t often experience.

“Of course you are,” she says, “as we always do.”

“Not your home, Telperiën…” Himmiel says.

“Our home. Ever since you came into my service and we…” She doesn’t say ‘fell in love’. They never speak of their connection to one another in those terms, except in bed, and only use their first names and endearments when in Nindámos, because Himmiel wants it so.

“My home, back in Andunië. My farm, my family’s house,” Himmiel says, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

“Why?” Telperiën rises, pacing the sand in front of Himmiel.

Himmiel shakes her head and wipes the tear. “I have told you why hundreds of times.”

Telperiën pinches the bridge of her nose. “I am sorry, Himmiel, I have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t even remember our last quarrel.”

“It was not a quarrel. I have told you over the years that this day would come.”

“Not the lineage thing again,” Telperiën explodes.

“You have to listen.” Himmiel rises to her feet and tries to catch Telperiën’s hand in hers in vain. “I may be of the blood of Elros Tar-Myniatur too, but my lineage is not as pure as yours. I will die sooner. And lately, I feel tired and old. You never noticed, but my bleeding stopped. I am not young anymore, Telperiën, but you, you are still beautiful and youthful and you can find someone else to love you.”

“Listen, Himmiel, I don’t want somebody else, and that thing about the bleeding is pure nonsense, it doesn’t mark the day of your impending death, and I think I should have some sort of say in the decision of us breaking apart, but you certainly have no say in trying to get me another lover.” Telperiën realizes that she is almost shouting and waving her arms wildly in her irritation.

“Telperiën, listen to yourself,” Himmiel says. “You can still marry and have children. People keep asking for an heir to the throne.”

“My nephew is a perfectly capable young man.”

“Minastir certainly is intelligent and kind-hearted, but why should you not leave some of your own? And wouldn't you want a child of your own to love?”

“I don’t have time for that. I want to live exactly as I do, to work for all the hours that I need to work, to travel freely. I was born to be queen, not mother or wife. And I wouldn’t stand to have some man trying to rule over me and my realm.”

“You take your appreciation of your great-grandmother far too seriously. She was a brilliant queen but not a very happy woman.”

“Oh Himmiel, because she didn’t have you…” Telperiën drops her arms and opens her hands in front of her lover, as she always does when they quarrel, to make peace. Reluctantly, Himmiel places her hands on Telperiën’s. “Do not do this, love, please…”

“I have grey hair.”

Telperiën bursts into laughter, because she knows exactly where Himmiel has found her first grey hair. “Leave it there, love. I like it.”

Against her will, Himmiel smiles. “Don’t be salacious. It doesn't suit a queen.”

“Don’t be prude - it has never suited you.”

For a moment they stand smiling at each other. The sun is nearing the water and, despite the long hours of light they still have ahead, they start walking back to the house, with no need for words. They take a bath, and go down to eat the simple food of Nindámos that Telperiën has been craving - grilled swordfish, caught that day, drizzled with lemon, and with fresh bread and greens. The conversation is light and speckled with the long silences that do not need to be filled. Everything seems normal and Telperiën almost convinces herself that Himmiel has come to her senses.

They go up, and slip into bed. Himmiel caresses Telperiën’s cheek with her fingertips and they start kissing, slowly. Telperiën chuckles and says, “You took the longer nap and I swam a lot. Tonight, you do all the work.”

Himmiel obliges, but not before playfully slapping Telperiën’s buttocks. They have played this game a thousand times in their many decades together. It is boringly familiar even in its smallest deviation from the script, and yet, it never ceases to alight Telperiën’s senses. For she loves Himmiel, she has loved the the mousy girl who came to court for the first time with her parents, she has loved the young woman who returned, a few years later to work on the archives, on a research project about the history of her family, she loved the woman who, at the height of her beauty rejected suitor after suitor and told her that she wanted to serve as her handmaiden, entering her life, then her bed and her heart.

“Stay,” she says as Himmiel brings her closer and closer. “Stay, love,” she whispers again and again until all words flee her and she utters a lone cry.

Later, she awakes Himmiel from her slumber with kisses and they love each other again.

~~~

A month later, they prepare to leave. Telperiën feels refreshed and ready to conquer the world, or at least to rule Armenelos and the whole of Elenna in the pragmatic, efficient way she has always done. In three month’s time, she will be leaving the capital for a tour to the main cities of the island, as she does every year, right after the harvests. It was Himmiel’s idea, based on something that she read in one of Ancalimë’s journals, during her time of research. The people are free to come to her and tell her their troubles and she feels that this helps her understand the land far better than sitting in Armenelos reading reports.

As Himmiel finishes their packing, Telperiën comes close and holds her by the waist, pulling her into a kiss.

“To Armenelos?” she carefully asks. Himmiel has not yet told her what she has decided to do.

Himmiel nods. “To Armenelos.”

Telperiën smiles.

Himmiel cups her cheek with her hand, pulling her in for another kiss. “To Armenelos, for this year, maybe a few years more. But, Telperiën, love, one day, we will resume our conversation.”

Telperiën looks away, over Himmiel’s shoulder as she holds her close. There is nothing that she can say.

Finis  
April 2020

**Author's Note:**

> OFC name from [Real Elvish](https://realelvish.net/). Himmiel - Daughter of Steadfast/Enduring One  
> Urimë - summer month in the Numenórian calendar that corresponds to latter July, early August.


End file.
